Thunder is Thunder is Thunder

Stealing your thunder –
I can do that, you say,
while evenly flicking rubbery drips off the side of a bottle.
Dark and syrupy drips,
sweetly sad with indignant envy,
that thunder bounces and beats behind me –
and I ignore it as best I can –
but, nanosenconds apart,
it’s upon me
and inescapable.
With hands on my ears,
it’s impossible to shut down,
the ever-present thunder,
a crescendo of punctuated admiration and unwarranted disgust.
Your timbre of vain impossibility pounds like a migraine
beside the feeble reservations
which bring an onslaught of envious rain.
We can never coax this war council to beat
with the thunder,
so our feet dangle and shake maniacally to distract it away.
God, don’t make me listen
to that not-so-distant thunder’s common incessancy.
Again.
What you do
is just like
what everyone else does;
you do it no better –
and it can only sound the same and the same and the same.

To steal it –
now that is the talented flash.
Even if it only fails to drown your unending neediness.
Flared and frightened out the tips of your toes,
and beating like the war council should,
it crawls from every single pore in your boundless crave,
dancing between you and you and you.

So get on with your good news,
the suspense is killing us.
Stop ruining our bad time,
really.
Our eyes are deaf with thunderous applause,
waiting for the trick, the other shoe to drop.
A rosy flurry ignites us,
as the vain thunder of possibility excites,
only to disrupt the fear of our own potent evil.
Be afraid out of the corner of your eye.
We seem unimposing,
but our shadows spread long and dark and spill effortlessly
for all to enjoy.
While your braggart thunder is possessed of emptiness,
our shadows possess slyly, pervasively.
Have your spotlight.
Salty and sweet and bitter and sour,
we hope for nothing less than disaster,
savoring the taste into the deep minutiae
of catastrophe awaiting –
because
as you may have noticed
thunder is thunder is thunder.